


The Adventures of Hitman

by Prospero101



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crime Fighting, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 01:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prospero101/pseuds/Prospero101
Summary: A seemingly normal teen finds himself the heir to a bloody legacy. Will the whole prove greater than the sum of its parts?The ongoing comicbook-ish tale of a new antihero in the Marvel Universe.





	1. Issue #1: New World Man, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> The setting here is by no means a definitive or even consistent status quo of the Marvel Universe. I've cobbled together something of my own between the Cinematic Universe and the broader comic book canon. Consider it a headcanon, if you must.

I looked down at the cards on the table, then at the ones in my hand. Then I looked over at Maya. “Really?”

Maya Duvall, my foster sister and more or less only friend in the world, grinned, leaning casually in her chair as she shuffled the cards in her hand. “Maaaaaaybe.”

I huffed and looked down at my hand again. I squinted down at the table. “ _ Really?” _

“Uh huh,” said Maya with a brilliant smile.

“Did you seriously just put a Time Warp on a Panoptic Mirror?” I asked incredulously.

“I sure did!” Maya gloated, pointing down at the table. “See? It’s right there.”

“I don’t think I want to play anymore,” I sighed, dropping my cards on the table.

“Good. Because you don’t get to!” Maya went through all her gloating motions. “Untap...take an extra turn...pass the turn! Untap...take an extra turn...pass the turn!”

“And to think I was the one who taught you how to play Magic,” I muttered as I swept all my cards together and set about shuffling my deck.

“You were the one who wanted to spend more time together!” Maya teased. Then she glanced at her phone. “Oh, crap. Come on, we can’t miss the bus again.”

The two of us swiftly gathered up our backpacks and made our way out, past our foster father, who was doing what he always did at this early hour: snoring in his recliner in front of the TV.

We made our way down the apartment building’s stairs and out into the sweltering Hell’s Kitchen springtime. Perhaps New York City wasn’t the best place to live for a guy uncomfortable in crowds; I seemed to be jostled and run into twice as much as the average person. Eventually I’d learned to ignore it, just like everybody else ignored me.

“Hey, did you know that Thomas Jefferson invented the swivel chair?” Maya said, poking at her phone as we walked up to the bus stop. 

“Got that AP US History test today?” I asked with a smile. The bus settled into the stop with a belch of diesel.

Maya clambered on, and I followed close behind. “Oh yeah. And I am woefully unprepared.”

I chuckled as I unspooled my headphones and put them in my ears. “You always say that, then you always get an A.”

Living in the foster system wasn’t exactly the most comfortable existence. I’d never felt like I’d belonged anywhere. Drifting from this orphanage to that foster home, never living in the same place for longer than a couple of years. The only consistent things in my world were Maya, who I’d met when Jack, our current foster father, took us in when I was ten and she was eight; and a small shoebox full of keepsakes inherited from my real father.

The contents of that shoebox more or less defined my existence. It had a set of Avengers trading cards from the 70s (almost complete; it was just missing Ant-Man), a couple of weird-looking black business cards with an embossed profile of a wolf on them, a few comic books that I read until they fell apart, and most importantly (to me, anyway) a set of four all-Rush mixtapes.

Rush’s music spoke to me on a level that no other music seemed to manage. Whether it was the lyrics with enough depth to apply to my own problems as well as those described in the song or some imagined connection to my father, I wasn’t sure. But those tapes got me through a lot of rough nights and long bus rides.

I’d worn out the tapes a long time ago, but I’d replicated them as playlists on every music device I’d ever owned. I watched the streets of Hell’s Kitchen slide past the window as the driving bassline of one of my favorite songs thumped in my ears:

_ He’s a rebel and a runner _

_ He’s a signal turning green _

_ He’s a restless young romantic _

_ Wants to run the big machine… _

 

* * *

 

I know I should count myself lucky that I get to go to school. Lots of kids in positions similar to mine don’t have that luxury. Just getting a high school diploma will improve my life immensely, and I don’t intend to stop there if I can manage it.

Doesn’t make it any less fucking insufferable.

Maya and I split up, promising to meet back up for lunch. Despite her being a sophomore, most of Maya’s advanced classes were utterly beyond me. She showed me one of her calc finals once and I had a headache for days. So when she scampered off to her AP US History class, I trudged to my garden-variety flavor.

“Gooooooooood morning, you reasons why I drink,” said Mr. Hartnell as he walked into the class, dumping his bag and tweed jacket on the desk. He turned to the chalkboard and scrawled  _ THE DO-NOTHING CONGRESS OF THE TRUMAN ADMINISTRATION _ across the top. “And before you ask, I did finally get your papers graded.”

Like most lazy teachers, Hartnell just regurgitated whatever was in the previous night’s assigned reading. Having already done it, I knew I wouldn’t learn anything new. I started doodling randomly in my notebook as he started droning.

The most excruciating thirty-five minutes of my life (until next period, anyway) finally concluded, and we all got up to leave. As I made my way toward the door, Hartnell called after me. “Mr. Halliday? Can I see you for a second?”

Oh, hell. The only time I ever got noticed was by screwing up. Somehow. I turned back to Hartnell, trying to keep my expression neutral. 

Hartnell leaned back in his chair and tapped his red pen on the stack of graded essays. “I didn’t get your paper. It’s twenty percent of your final grade, you know. I can give you an extension if you’re willing to take a hit on the-”

“I gave you the paper, Mr. Hartnell,” I snapped, unable to be polite any longer. “Maybe you should check again? This isn’t the first time you’ve lost it.”

Hartnell rolled his eyes. “I think you could give me a little more credit than that, Logan.” But he leaned forward and started leafing through the stack of papers. Sure enough, there was mine, right in the middle of the stack, completely ungraded.

“Huh.” Hartnell settled back in his chair, frowning at the paper in his hand. “I gotta say, I don’t recall getting this from you…”

“Fancy that,” I said wearily. “Can I go? I’m gonna be late.”

“Yeah. Fine.” Hartnell didn’t look up.

 

* * *

 

I set my tray down across the table from Maya. “How was the test?”

Maya shrugged and poked at her mashed potatoes with a plastic spork. “About as well as could be expected. Teacher keeps bugging me about getting my IQ tested.”

I nodded vigorously as I pried open my carton of milk. “I really think you should.”

“But whyyyyyyy?” whined Maya, in a parody of a childish tantrum that made me snort into my milk. “You know how much I hate standardized tests! Besides, it’s just a number. We already know how smart I am.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “True, but I bet you’ll get all sorts of scholarships and whatnot if you’re a  _ certified _ smarty-pants.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “I should get some business cards. ‘Maya Duvall: Certified Smarty-Pants.’”

“MAYA!” called a male voice from across the cafeteria.

Maya hung her head, black curls shrouding her face. “Oh, hell…”

A tall, blonde, Aryan specimen in a letterman jacket trotted over to our table. “There you are, baby! I thought I told you to come sit with me for lunch? I want you to meet the boys!”

“Bobby, for the last time,  _ I’m not interested _ ,” Maya spat, without looking the kid in the eye.

“C’mon, what do I gotta do? I’m being a perfect gentleman here!” Bobby leaned closer over Maya, while she tried to make herself as small as possible.

“Hey, buddy,” I said lowly. The anger in my voice startled even me, but I was too in the moment to care. “The lady said back off.”

Bobby glanced over at me and blinked several times, as if only just now realizing I was there. “And who the hell are you, pal? I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“Bobby! You gotta come see what Chuck’s doing!” called a voice from across the room.

Bobby hung his head and sighed. “You know what? Forget it. Catch you later, Maya.” He winked at her and mercifully left.

As soon as he was gone, I leaned forward and whispered to Maya. “Who the hemorrhaging  _ fuck _ is that?”

Maya shrugged a shoulder, brushing her hair back out of her face before she spoke. “Just...some twerp on the basketball team. We have to share the gym with them during volleyball practice, but all they do is whistle at us and make terrible innuendo.”

“How long has he been harassing you?” I asked. My focus shifted to Bobby’s retreating back as a weird sort of tunnel vision settled over me. 

“A few weeks. Almost a month.”

“You should talk to someone about it. The principal. Your coach. Somebody.”

Maya’s voice sounded like it came from some distance away. “And they’ll do  _ what,  _ exactly?” she spluttered, face red and contorted in frustration. “He hasn’t actually done anything except talk. They’ll tell him to stop, he won’t, nothing happens!” Then she paused. “Logan...what are you doing with that?” She pointed at my hand.

_ One quick throw to the back of the neck. Enough force goes neatly through the brainstem. Plop. Dead. _ said a voice in my head, not entirely my own, but not entirely distinct.

I blinked and looked down at my hand. Somehow I’d started twirling my spork in my hand like a dart. “I...sorry. Guess I’m just a little jittery today.”

“Uh huh…” said Maya slowly. She shoved her empty tray to the side and fished in her backpack for her Magic cards. “You brought your deck, right?”

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the day, I found it difficult to focus. Whenever my mind wandered, I found myself drifting into that weird tunnel vision again, with the not-quite-my-voice speaking in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.

I bent to tie my shoe in front of my locker.  _ Makes a serviceable garrote. Lace it with piano wire before tomorrow morning. _

A burly football player shouldered his way past me, in a hurry to get down the stairs.  _ Bears all his weight on the back foot. Quick jab to the side of the knee, he goes down the stairs head first. For all anybody knows, an accident. _

I put a dollar in the vending machine, but my bag of Skittles got caught on the loop.  _ Plastic pane like this breaks most easily on the edge, between corners. Breaks into shards, makes good throwing knives. _

2:45 couldn’t come fast enough. I hurriedly piled my books into my backpack and went to find Maya for the quick jog to make the 3:00 bus back to Hell’s Kitchen. 

I found her huddled against her locker with that Bobby kid looming over her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he kept stepping closer to her as she shrunk away. She tried to walk past him, but he grabbed her wrist and forcefully pushed her back against the locker.

For a split second, Maya was no longer the pretty, bright-eyed genius she’d grown into. She was a little girl again, flinching anytime someone tried to touch her. It took her years to open up after what she’d experienced. This greedy, entitled jock was closing her off again.

The tunnel vision settled over me again, centered around Bobby’s smug prick face.  _ Typical swaggering alpha type. Lethal force unnecessary. One good punch… _

I dropped my backpack on the floor and set off down the hallway towards them. I could faintly hear Bobby over the pounding of blood in my ears. 

“Don’t you walk away when we’re fucking talking, you little -” I tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and opened his mouth to crack wise. Before he got the chance, I punched him in the nose as hard as I possibly could. 

_ I said a good punch, dammit. _

Bobby recoiled away from me, hands on his face as blood spurted from his nostrils. The tunnel vision abruptly faded as pain radiated through my hand. It took me by such surprise that I stumbled, briefly slumping against the locker next to Maya.

Maya stared at me like a deer in headlights. “What are you-”

“You  _ son of a bitch!” _ roared Bobby around his broken nose. “I am gonna fucking  _ kill _ you!”

I swore and shook out my throbbing hand. “I should go,” I told Maya, then took off running down the hallway. The foreign sense of purpose and instinct that came with the tunnel vision was gone, replaced by sweat and panic. 

I skidded around the corner, running for dear life down the empty hallways. Even as I wheezed and kept running, I knew it was futile. Even if Bobby didn’t make good on his promise to kill me, I was sure his teammates would. Without thinking I made a hard right into the men's’ bathroom, moments before Bobby came around the corner just down the hallway. I was faster than I thought.

Of course none of the stalls had doors. Nowhere to hide. I was in for it now. I braced myself against the wall, suddenly wishing to be ignored like I always was.

“I’m not here,” I whispered hoarsely. I screwed my eyes shut, as if wishing might make it so. “You can’t see me.  _ You can’t see me. I’m not here. _ ”

I watched the door to the bathroom open. Bobby ran in, all but frothing at the mouth. His blonde hair was disheveled, his letterman jacket askew. Blood still trickled from his nose. But he didn’t immediately run over to beat the tar out of me.

He paused in the middle of the room, frowning. He glanced into each stall, then spun around back to the door. He slowly turned, taking in the entire room. I watched his eyes rake directly over me, without any sign of recognition. 

_ “Shit!” _ he spluttered under his breath, and left the bathroom.

_ He won’t be back. We’ve cowed him. But his type doesn’t handle fear well. He’s going to lash out. Watch him. _

I slid down the wall to a sitting position, absentmindedly cradling my throbbing hand. So that was it. There really was something going on. I wasn’t just unlucky, I was…

Shit. For all I knew, Bobby was going right back to harassing Maya. I hurriedly got back up and jogged down the hallway towards her locker.

But she was long gone. So, it seemed, was Bobby. I looked around for a minute. “Maya?” I called out. Nothing but the echo of the empty hallway replied.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a text from Maya:  _ Hurry up. You’re gonna miss the bus. _

“Fuck,” I spat, and ran to get my backpack and head out the door.

 

* * *

 

I don’t know how I found the energy to keep running, but I did. I ran through the crowd, continuously jostled and bumped. I made it to the bus stop just in time to watch it drive away. I could faintly see the back of Maya’s head sitting in the rearmost seat.

I collapsed onto the bench at the stop, panting. The next bus wasn’t arriving for another three hours, but it would take me even longer to walk home from here. I could only hope that Bobby and his cronies didn’t show up and jump me while I waited.

I’d only been waiting for about twenty minutes when a glossy black SUV rolled up to the stop. The passenger side window buzzed down, and a gruff male voice wafted out. “You Logan Halliday?”

I probably shouldn’t have said anything. After the day I’d had, the last thing I needed was more harassment. But I was too startled and exhausted to come up with a lie. “Uh...yeah?”

“Get in the car.”

Puzzled, I got up to take a closer look at the driver. He was a tall, well-built man in his late thirties or early forties. Everything from his hair to his boots screamed military high-and-tight. He wore all black: black shirt, black windbreaker, black fatigues, black combat boots. He observed me coolly, with no expression on his face.

“Get in the car,” he repeated, a little urgency creeping into his tone.

“Do I know you?” I asked stupidly.

“No.” His eyes flashed with annoyance. Something told me bad things happened when this man got annoyed. “Now get. In the car.”

I started slowly backing away, hands in the air. “Look, if you think I’m gonna drive off with some stranger just because he asks me to…”

“Don’t make this more of a pain in the ass than it already is, kid,” said the man with a heavy sigh. He lifted his coat away from his chest, revealing the well-polished butt of a pistol nestled in a shoulder holster. “Get in the fucking car. Now.”

Maybe I could still get away. Who knows how long it would take him to draw and fire -

_ That’s a Spetznaz-issue breakaway holster. He’ll have that gun out and in your face in less than two seconds. _

The man dropped his coat and settled his hands back on the wheel. “Come on, kid. It’s about your dad.”

Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for several long, silent seconds.

I got in the car.


	2. Issue #2: New World Man, Part 2

The SUV pulled away from the curb, in a direction that was distinctly not toward Hell’s Kitchen. Great. So now a psychopath was going to take me to his secret murder hole in his mother’s basement. Wasn’t that just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that was my day.

The man suddenly spoke, jerking me out of my panicked reverie. “Call me Frank. I used to work with your father.”

I fiddled nervously with my seatbelt, too terrified to look Frank in the eye. Still, my curiosity got the better of me. “Doing what?”

Frank chuckled. It was bizarre seeing a face that stoic and dour crack a smile. “We used to call it ‘shoveling shit.’” His expression sobered, and he reached into his windbreaker to pull out a cigar. “He was a good man. A good soldier. I miss him.”

A good soldier? Now I knew infinitely more about my father then I ever had before. That gave me the courage to look up. “A good soldier? Where did he serve?”

“He served right here in the Kitchen, my friend,” replied Frank. The car settled into traffic and he turned to face me for the first time since I got into the car. “Back in those days, you had the Irish, the Italians, Russians, yakuza...it was open season for scumbags. Make no mistake kid, we were at war.” He grinned a rictus grin that belonged more on a skull than a human face. “You ask me, the war’s still on.”

It was then that I realized who exactly Frank was. I recognized him from countless Bugle articles calling him a deranged maniac. I’d participated in a thousand different online debates on whether he was a hero or a villain or some combination of the two. But the realization made me a little more comfortable, if anything: if the Punisher wanted me dead, we wouldn’t be talking. “So...you mean to tell me that...you and my father…?”

Frank drummed his unlit cigar impatiently on the steering wheel. “I’m not gonna beat around the bush, kid. Your dad was a killer, a born-again predator. And so are you.”

The very idea of it sounded absurd. I looked down at my hands, free of the calluses and scars that covered Frank’s. And yet I found myself hard-pressed to disbelieve him.

Frank must’ve mistaken my silence for assent. “So when did it start?”

“When did what start?”

“Your dad used to tell me about the tunnel vision. When he was moving in for the kill, nothing could shake him loose. He was fast as lightning and twice as deadly.” The car thudded forward again, but Frank didn’t take his eyes off me. “When did it start?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Couple of years ago. But it’s been happening more often these past few months.”

“Kill anyone yet?”

“What?? No!” I spluttered, face turning scarlet. I wasn’t sure which frustrated me more: Frank’s laissez-faire attitude to the subject of murder, or that I had to summon so much vitriol to even have an opinion on killing.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Kid, this is gonna be a long-ass fucking drive if you’re gonna wet your pants every time I say the k-word.” He paused, staring irritably at the unlit cigar in his hand. He rolled down the window and tossed it out. “So you ain’t killed anyone yet. But I bet you wanted to.”

I reddened a bit more, trying to come up with an effective denial. I’d always been a terrible liar. “I...yeah. Once or twice.”

“And I bet you knew exactly how.”

I slumped forward, head in my hands. With all these experiences out in the open air, outside my head, they seemed so much more real. And so much more utterly ridiculous. “For crying out loud, I almost killed a man with a plastic spork!”

“A spork.” Frank squinted into the windshield for a moment, then shook his head. “Okay, that’s a new one. So who was the target?”

I sighed, and my left hand twinged at the memory. “Some prick who wouldn’t stop harassing my sister. All I ended up doing was punch him in the nose.”

“Punching him in the...oh, Jesus H. Christ,” Frank exhaled a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. “The hell did you get me into, Dino…”

“Was that his name?” I asked suddenly.

“That’s what he told me. Dean.”

“Dean what?”

Frank shrugged. “Nothing. Just Dean.” He shifted in his seat, reaching behind the passenger seat for something in the back of the car. “Look, there’s one last thing I gotta do, then you can get the hell outta my car.” He pulled out an oversized black briefcase and set it in my lap. “Your dad wanted you to have this.”

Puzzled, I ran my hands over the case’s hard black surface. A silver profile of a wolf was embossed on each clasp. “What’s in it?” I asked.

Frank shrugged. “Stuff he wanted you to have.” He pulled over to shut off the engine. “Now get out.”

I blinked, observing our surroundings for the first time in a while. Somehow we’d ended up a block away from where I lived. At a complete and utter loss for anything else to say, I unbuckled myself, took the briefcase, and got out.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Frank, drumming his fingers on his steering wheel. He was clearly mulling something over. Then he cursed under his breath and grabbed a napkin from the cupholder, scrawling a number on it and throwing it at me. “Listen, kid...you ever feel like you want to turn yourself toward something productive...make something of your potential? Gimme a call.”

With that, he started the car and pulled away.

 

* * *

I trudged the last block towards my apartment building, mind reeling in endless neurotic circles over what I’d just learned.

_ Your father was a killer, a born-again predator. And so are you. _

Was I really a killer? I didn’t think I wanted to be. Surely all life had value for its own sake, right? I cringed at that, knowing that I couldn’t lie to myself like that. I’d always been told that life had value. I understood that concept on an intellectual level. But that gut feeling, that twinge of conscience that made people understand that  _ murder is bad, okay, _ just didn’t exist for me. I didn’t think it ever had.

The urge had been easy for me to ignore, since I always lacked the skill. The opportunity. The power. But now that I had this...this  _ weirdness _ kicking around in my head, how long would it be? How long would it take for me to just end someone’s life?

I was jerked back to the real word by the sound of sobbing coming from the stoop in front of my building. I jogged the last few steps and found Maya huddled there, head in her hands, shoulders heaving. She looked up as my shadow crossed her, tears streaming down her face.

She ran to me and hugged me tightly, burying her face in my chest. I dropped the suitcase and squeezed her close. We stood in silence for a few moments, while she cried into my shirt. I learned a long time ago that Maya would only come out on her own. She needed to feel safe first.

Maya finally managed to stem her tears with a few long snorts. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but steady. “How...how was it so easy for him? All those years...all that therapy...a waste of time as soon as some asshole gives me grief.”

We sat back down on the stoop. I slipped my arm around Maya’s shoulder and pulled her close against me. “Well, Bobby’s a very special kind of asshole.”

Maya huffed as she wiped away the last of her tears with the cuffs on her hoodie. “Not special enough. I can’t just... _ stop functioning _ like that. It makes me feel like, like  _ nothing. _ ”

“Would it help if I told you that you were the smartest person I’ve ever met?” I smiled down at her.

She chuckled hoarsely and put her head on my shoulder. “I’m nobody’s Reed Richards.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the cube root of 128,512?”

Maya screwed up her face as the gears turned in her head. “Should be around...fifty? 50.46, if you’re feeling pedantic.”

“I believe you,” I said flatly. She laughed. It always felt good to make Maya laugh, even if she wasn’t always laughing  _ with _ me. “See? I don’t even know what a cube root is! You’re amazing!”

Maya nodded against my shoulder. “I know, I know...I just need to figure out how to not feel so weak, y’know? Maybe take up martial arts or something. One of those really badass ones, like krav maga or whatever.”

I smiled and squeezed her a little more tightly. “You know I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

She laughed again. “I think you’ve helped quite enough for one day.” Maya looked up at me for the first time. Her eyes were red and raw from the tears, but they’d regained her sparkle of insight. “Did you really have to punch him in the nose?”

I shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Maya patted my knee. “All I’m saying is...a punch in the nose is a waste of everybody’s time. Just aim for the crotch next time?”

I laughed, and reached over to playfully muss her hair. She shoved me in retaliation. “So, you’re not angry?” 

Maya shook her head. She raked a hand through her tangled hair to pull it out of her face. “It was...sweet. You looked like Captain America there for a second.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her. “If I looked like Cap, I’d imagine I would have better luck with the ladies.”

Maya shoved me again, smiling. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

“Love you too, sis.”

She pointed at the suitcase, lying entirely forgotten at my feet. “What’s that?”

“I have no idea,” I replied honestly. I hefted it and gestured up the stairs. “Wanna go crack it open?”

“Why Logan, you know just what to say to a girl!” Maya grinned and led the way up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Our foster father Jack worked swing shifts at a warehouse on the waterfront, so he was usually either sleeping or gone to work by the time we got home from school. We mercifully avoided being reamed for getting home three hours late. 

I couldn’t say I disliked Jack, per se. After all, taking in foster children is a choice, and he could’ve given us up at any time in the last eight years. But it seemed like he was rarely around for me to form an opinion; he never had fewer than two jobs at any given time.

We scurried back into my bedroom and shut the door behind us. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My bedroom, festooned in comic-book posters and lined with models and bobbleheads and well-loved paperbacks, was my Baxter Building, my Stark Tower. It was the only place in the world I was really comfortable. 

I set the briefcase on the bed while Maya shut the door. “So where’d you get it?” she asked. “Pull it out of a dumpster or something?”

“Not exactly.” I brushed my thumbs over the silver wolves on the clasps. “The Punisher gave it to me.” With that, I clicked the case open.

The case appeared to be filled with a black plastic garment bag. An ancient VHS tape was nestled on top of the bag. Three simple words were stenciled on the label in neat letters: WATCH ME FIRST.

I picked up the tape and frowned at it. “Do we still have a VCR?”

Maya snorted. “Did we ever have a VCR?” She turned toward the door again. “There’s boxes of old crap in the hall closet. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” She came back a few minutes later, carrying a device the size, shape, and color of a cinderblock. “Jackpot!” She blew the dust off the top, directly in my face.

I sneezed, waving her irritably toward the small TV I kept in the corner of the room. We hooked up the ancient VCR and put in the tape.

The screen fizzled to life, showing a grainy image of what appeared to be the inside of a large shipping container. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a small pool of light directly in front of the camera. A slim figure stood just outside the light with his back to the camera. The figure was pacing back and forth, clearly impatient.

It took a moment’s concentration, but I realized I could hear music playing dimly in the background, the driving bassline to a very familiar song:

_ He’s not concerned with yesterday _

_ He knows constant change is here today _

_ He’s noble enough to know what’s right _

_ But weak enough not to choose it _

_ He’s wise enough to win the world _

_ But fool enough to lose it… _

The video had been playing for almost a full minute before he spoke. His voice pricked at my ears with an uneasy familiarity, despite my certainty that I’d never heard it before.  _ “Okay...it’s not gonna get any better than this. May as well go through with it now.” _

The figure turned to face the camera, and stepped into the light. His face provoked a gasp from both me and Maya. It was like looking into one of those enchanted mirrors from the Harry Potter books that showed your future. There was clearly a few decades between us, but the resemblance was uncanny. Same mousy brown hair, same hazel eyes, the same little smirk that Maya always called “resting dick face.” This man was either my father or myself from a future timeline.

He was dressed in an impeccable dark suit and black leather gloves. His tie was bright red, throwing the black suit into sharp relief. He stood with an easy grace that betrayed his capabilities. I could tell from a glance that the man was a coiled spring, ready to snap into action at any moment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maya look at the screen, then over to me and back again, her face growing increasingly confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the figure on the screen - my father - spoke again.

_ “Ahem. Hello. If you’re watching this, it means Frank kept his promise. Not that I’m surprised. Frank Castle can be trusted with just about anything except a loaded gun. _ ” He rocked back and forth nervously on his heels, once again a perfect, if aged, mirror of myself.  _ “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I hoped I could just leave you where you’d be safe and have done. I put it all in place, I got on a plane to Paris, and just...left it all behind. I didn’t want to.” _

He smiled and raked a gloved hand through his unkempt hair.  _ “You have no idea how much I wanted to be your dad. I wanted to take you to the comic book store every Wednesday. I wanted to watch you play a turnip or a pixie or whatever in your school plays. But I can’t. With what I know...what I do...this is the only way I guarantee that you’ll be safe.”  _ He put his hands on his hips and sighed. A bitter expression collected on his face, like he’d stepped in something smelly.

_ “Turns out leaving it all behind is kind of impossible when you take it with you. I thought it was a tool. The tunnel vision. The...the instincts. But I was wrong. It’s an urge, a habit, an addiction. I have to kill, son. And I’m afraid that so will you. I did my best to turn my urges to productive ends, but...that doesn’t soothe the conscience, does it?”  _ He shrugged, another tired smile crossing his face.  _ “At least I assume it doesn’t soothe the conscience, for those who have one.The fact of the matter is that if you don’t figure your skills out and become their master, they could master you. The first time I realized I was slipping...it was at a cafe on the Champs Elysee. The barista served me a caramel macchiato instead of black coffee, and I almost...let’s just say I could think of a hundred better uses for all that steamed milk. I felt sick. I felt…”  _ He shuddered, and tugged nervously at his cufflinks.  _ “Inhuman. I don’t want you to feel that way, but...my own stupidity and shortsightedness means that it’s virtually guaranteed. The contents of this case will hopefully help you as they’ve helped me: to turn your urges to productive ends. That’s all we can hope for.”  _ My father looked at the camera for a long, pregnant pause.  _ “Stay safe, son. I love you.” _

The video faded to black. Maya and I were alone again, save for the quiet  _ click _ of the VCR shutting off. 

“Oooooookay…” Maya said finally. She slapped her knees and stood. “This...you’re just fucking with me, right? You, you...you found a suit and some old-age makeup and said some spooky shit into a camera just to dick me around.”

I spread my hands in surrender. “Maya, come on...you know I’ve never managed anything more sophisticated than a knock-knock joke.”

She stared at me for a second. “Ah, shit. You’re right.” Then she rubbed her forehead and started pacing in front of my bed. “I’ve seen it, you know. The urge. That twitch you get sometimes.”

My eyes widened. All this time, cooped up inside my own head. It was the one thing I’d never told anyone about, not even Maya. Yet it had been obvious to her all this time. “You...really?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sometimes your eyes just get this...weird distance. You look cold. And the way you hold things sometimes…” Maya spoke nervously, under her breath. She hugged herself tightly, but to my surprise she didn’t turn tail and run. She stepped closer to me. “But I also see you fight it. For eight years, you’ve been fighting it.” She pointed at the television. “Which is why I don’t believe it for a second when that man - whether he’s your dad or not - calls you a killer.”

I looked up and met her gaze for the first time. She had a very familiar glint in her eye. Maya wasn’t scared. She saw this as a problem to be solved. That gave me a little hope, even if it might be false. “But, Maya...I just...I think about killing people, and I...don’t feel anything. It’s not that I don’t care, I just...don’t care about killing.” I rubbed at the back of my neck. “I’m not a psychopath. At least I don’t think so. But do crazy people know they’re crazy?”

Maya smiled a little. “I’m pretty sure crazy people don’t fret about whether or not they’re crazy.” She turned back to the suitcase. “Maybe your dad was right. Best we can hope for is to be productive. But that doesn’t mean you have to kill anybody.”

God, I wanted to believe her.

Maya reached down and pulled up the garment bag on the top of the suitcase. She held it by the hanger on top. She pulled away the plastic bag covering the suit. A suit that was clearly identical to the one my father wore in the tape. “Holy shit,” she breathed as she ran her hands over the material. 

I went over to her to examine the suit myself. It was a very fine suit, all dark fabrics light to the touch. It included a crisp white shirt, the same bright red tie, and a pair of wingtip loafers. There was no manufacturer’s label or any other sort of identifying markings.

Maya shoved the hanger in my direction. “Well? Aren’t you going to try it on?”

I frowned at it. It was a really nice suit… “What, just walk around in the suit my dad wore when he killed people?”

Maya raised a correcting finger. “We don’t know that this was his suit, or that he killed anybody.” She shrugged and shook the hanger again. “All we’ve got to go on is a real sexy suit. Go try it on.”

I sighed and took the hanger from her. “Alright, fine.”

The suit fit me perfectly. Almost suspiciously so, as if some ninja tailor had come in the night and taken my measurements while I was sleeping. I intuitively understood that it gave me complete freedom of movement. The shirt and jacket had curious gel pads sewn into certain parts of the lining. Some sort of high-tech armor, maybe? Just how had my father gotten his hands on something this fancy?

I walked out of the bathroom with the two ends of that tie draped over my neck. I poked my head in my bedroom door to look at Maya. “Hey, do you know how to tie this thing?”

Maya rolled her eyes. “You’re useless.” But she came over and set about tying the tie in a smooth knot. She smoothed the silk down the front of my shirt and took a few steps back. “Wow…” she said breathlessly as she took me in. “Logan...you look  _ hot!” _

I looked down at myself, then over at her. “Don’t get cute, Maya,” I scoffed. “Now’s not a good time to yank my chain.”

Maya laughed, shaking her head. She plopped back down on the bed, leaning back to look at the ceiling. “I’m serious! There’s just...something about a really nice suit. It’s like how guys like lacy lingerie. Chicks dig suits. If nothing else, you’ll be pulling a lot more tail with that number.”

The idea was so patently absurd that I decided a rapid subject change was in order. I unbuttoned the suit’s jacket so I could show her the inside lining. “Look at all these weird pockets.”

The jacket had a number of added pockets, including one that looked uncomfortably perfect as a holster, one that contained a pair of black leather gloves, another on the other side that was much more narrow, and even a small one in the lining of the left cuff on the shirt.

Maya gestured at the suitcase. “Maybe it’s to hide all that stuff?”

I frowned and looked through the suitcase. The bottom was filled with foam, with portions cut out to snugly hold a lethal kit: a spool of piano wire, a retractable baton, and one of the most gorgeous firearms I’d ever seen.

I recognized it as a Colt 1911, a firearm I’d seen in a hundred action movies. The slide was shiny and silver, almost like a mirror. Possibly nickel-plated. The long black tube of a silencer was screwed into the barrel. The grips appeared to be snakeskin, embossed with a silver profile of a wolf, the same wolf on the business cards and the clasps of the suitcase itself. Three magazines were lined up directly underneath it.

Without thinking, I picked up the gun. I felt the weight of it in my hands. It was heavier than I expected. Finding the balance to hold it in one hand was tricky. But after a few moments, it felt  _ right. _ There was no other word for it. This gun was an extension of myself. As much a part of me as my hand or my nose.

“Logan…” Maya said cautiously.

I barely heard her. I picked up one of the magazines, loaded it into the gun, and racked the slide. I aimed it at the wall, looked down the sights. It felt like perfection. It felt like power.

The sound of Maya’s voice broke my reverie. “Maybe you should put that away? Put it all away?”

I looked down at myself, noticing what I’d been doing for the first time. “I...yeah. Yeah, I should put this away.”

  
  


* * *

The next few days went by in a blur. Finals would be upon us in a few weeks, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. It all seemed incredibly unimportant. Of course, what I felt like I should be doing instead made me feel sick. Maya advocated throwing the briefcase in the river and pretending it never happened, but we both knew I couldn’t do that. The contents of that case were too beautiful. Too important.

I collected more than a few stink eyes from Bobby, whose nose was still in a brace after I’d broken it. Evidently the story was that he’d fallen on his face during basketball practice. It seemed that somehow no one saw our brief altercation, and Bobby certainly wasn’t going to spread the word. Stink eyes notwithstanding, neither Bobby nor his jock cohorts made another move on Maya or myself. Maybe it was over.

_ Don’t be ridiculous. It’s never over. They’ll come back. They always do. Keep coming back until they’re dead. _

The instincts were now a constant presence in the back of my mind, buzzing under my thoughts. They urged me to kill for increasingly petty reasons, and told me exactly how to get away with it. I felt myself slipping more than once, but Maya was always there to put a comforting hand on my shoulder to bring me back to reality. I kept the napkin with Frank’s phone number in my back pocket, but couldn’t bring myself to call. I wanted Maya to be right. I didn’t want to be a killer.

I locked myself in my room for a little peace and quiet. If I wasn’t around people, the instincts usually kept to themselves. I sprawled on my bed, idly flipping through a dozen different books, tossing each to the floor in turn. Nothing could seem to hold my attention.

I hadn’t been alone for long when I heard rapidfire knocking on my door. “Logan!” Maya called excitedly, knocking at a feverish pace. “LoganLoganLoganLoganLoganLooooooogan!”

“What?” I replied with an irritable sigh.

“C’mon, you’re honestly gonna want to pull your head out of your ass for this.”

I got up from my bed and padded over to the door. As soon as I opened it, Maya grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the hallway. “Okay, so, there’s this girl at the door,” she began, speaking breathlessly. “Well. Woman, really. And she’s totally hot! And she’s looking for  _ you!” _

I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I thought we talked about you trying to be funny. It just doesn’t work.”

Maya was clearly paying no attention. She shoved me back towards my room. “Quick, I’ll stall her, you go put on the suit! Trust me!”

I rolled my eyes and shouldered my way past her. “Is there actually somebody at the door?”

Maya sighed and crossed her arms. “Okay, fine. Just don’t come crying to me because you’ve got no game.”

I went over to the door to our apartment and pulled it open. I hated it when Maya was right, which was all the time. Standing there in the doorway, with a stack of papers cradled in her arm, was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She couldn’t have been more than four years older than me, yet her eyes belied intelligence and experience far beyond my own. I suddenly wished I was wearing literally anything other than my pajamas.

When she saw me, she smiled and held out her hand to shake. “Hi! I’m Karen Page, I work for Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law?”

“I...yeah, sure. Those guys took down the Kingpin, right?” I shook her hand, praying to God that my hand wasn’t as clammy as I felt it was. 

There was no way you could live in the Kitchen without hearing of Nelson & Murdock at least once. They were the Robin Hood of defense attorneys, taking so many pro bono cases that it was often wondered how they managed to stay in business at all. I was mostly confused as to why they wanted anything to do with me.

“Yeah, that was us. For however long that stuck, anyway.” Karen squinted at me for a second, then shook her head. “I’m sorry...you’re Logan Halliday, right?”

_ Who’s asking? _ Barked the voice in my head.

I ignored it. “Yeah, that’s me?”

Karen exhaled a long sigh of relief. “Okay, great. It’s taken us such a long time to find you that I wasn’t sure.” She looked down at her stack of papers. “We were hoping to set up a meeting to go over the execution of your father’s will?”

“The what of my father’s what now?” I asked stupidly. 

Karen lifted a hand to her lips, eyes widening in shock. “Oh my God...you didn’t know? I’m so, so sorry -”

I scratched the back of my head and leaned against the door frame. “No, I mean...I knew he was dead, I just didn’t know he had a will.”

“Oh,” Karen said with a frown. “That’s strange…”

I shrugged a shoulder. “Not so strange. I never met him. Been in the system my whole life.” I cleared my throat. “A meeting. Right. Sure. I’d rather just get it done as soon as possible, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Karen said slowly, voice cautious. “I can give you a lift to the office?”

“Great.” I turned to go back inside. “Let me just throw some real clothes on.”

Maya pounced as soon as the door clicked shut. “So? When’s the date?”

I ignored that question, making for my bedroom. I bent and selected the least smelly pair of jeans from the floor. “Apparently, in addition to the videotape, the suit, and the Contract Killer Activity Playset, my dad also has a will. Nelson & Murdock are going to execute it.”

“Holy shit,” replied Maya. “You think he left you any money?”

I shrugged. “I guess that’s what we’re going to find out.”

Thus dressed, I went back outside to greet Karen. We walked down the stairs and out of the building. As we got in her car and pulled away from the curb, Karen looked sideways at me. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

_ Can I stop you? _

I cleared my throat a little. “I mean, I think you just did, but you can go again if you want.”

Karen laughed. She had a brilliant smile. “I was just wondering...do you know how hard it was to track you down? Unlisted phone number and address, no Facebook or Twitter profile. How does a young guy in high school like you get around by living off the grid like that?”

_ Only way to live, sister. Untraceable to anyone but nutjobs like you. _

The voice in my head was especially cantankerous today. Outwardly, I shrugged. “Guess I never thought of it as ‘living off the grid.’ None of that stuff ever really interested me, so I don’t bother. I’m just a private guy, I guess.”

Karen nodded, turning her gaze back toward the street. “Yeah. I think we all feel that way, at least sometimes.”

I chanced a look over at her. I didn’t die. Good first step. “Can I ask you something now?”

She smiled. “I do believe you just did, but you can go again if you want.”

“What exactly is in my father’s will, anyway?”

Karen drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “You should probably wait to ask Foggy and Matt when you meet them.”

“Nelson and Murdock, respectively?”

“You got it.”

Nelson & Murdock’s office wasn’t far from my apartment building. Karen led the way inside. She spoke in a singsong voice as she opened the door. “Guys, look who I found!”

The two lawyers were standing near a reception desk in the main room. I recognized both of them from the news: Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock. Nelson was shorter and a little heavyset, with long blonde hair he kept tucked behind his ears. Murdock was tall and lean, with round red sunglasses and a cane between his folded hands. 

“Dammit!” said Foggy Nelson as he walked over to us. He pulled a folded $20 bill from his pocket and slapped it into Karen’s hand. “I figured you were a ghost,” he said to me as he held out his hand to shake. “Foggy Nelson.”

“Logan Halliday.” I shook.

Murdock slowly made his way over, tapping his cane in front of him as he moved. “Forgive him. Foggy’s mouth tends to engage before his brain. We don’t mean to make light of your father’s death.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Look, everybody can just stop walking on eggshells, okay? I’ve known my father was dead for a long time. Even if he wasn’t dead, I never knew him, so he may as well be.”

Foggy clapped his hands before the conversation could get anymore awkward. “Great! Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Karen guided us into the small meeting room nearby. “So, what kind of name is ‘Foggy Nelson,’ anyway?” I asked, trying my best to lighten the mood. “You sound like a Prohibition-era gangster.”

Foggy smirked. “‘Halliday’ sounds like an Irish beer. Call it even?”

“Hey, I, for one, love Irish beer,” said Murdock, grinning as he settled into his chair.

Karen passed out three thick manila folders: one each for me and Foggy, plus one in Braille for Murdock.

“Now, estate law isn’t exactly our wheelhouse,” Foggy began as we all cracked open the envelopes. “So forgive us if we take things a bit slow.”

“This case kind of…” Murdock paused to clear his throat. “Fell into our laps.”

Foggy coughed abruptly, preventing Murdock from elaborating any further. I didn’t need my instincts to tell me that something was off. “Anyway,” said Foggy, leafing through the will. “Your dad left most of his assets to various charities in Hell’s Kitchen, so there’s only one clause we really need to go over.”

Murdock began slowly running his fingers over his Braille copy. “It looks like he left you a few small real estate holdings in Rome, Bangkok, and Upper Manhattan - looks like apartments - and funds in escrow amounting to roughly 17.5 million dollars.”

If I’d been drinking anything, I would have immediately spat it out all over the table. I fumbled for my copy of the will, frantically flipping to the page in question. “You...you’ve got to be kidding me! Seventeen  _ million _ ?!”

Foggy held up a finger. “Before you start flipping out like you won the lottery, you should know there are a few strings attached.”

Murdock nodded. “The money is held in a trust, and that’s where it’ll stay unless you meet the conditions outlined on page twenty-nine.”

I flipped to the appropriate page. “He...he wants me to go to college…”

“Go to college, maintain a minimum 3.0 grade point average, and obtain your degree in a reasonable amount of time,” Murdock elaborated. “We’ll let go enough money from the trust to pay for tuition and miscellaneous expenses.” Then he stopped and smiled a little. “I recommend Empire State. Foggy and I took our undergrad there.”

“What I remember of it, anyway,” Foggy said with a chortle. 

Murdock’s expression sobered. “But this last clause is the most important. If, at any time, you are convicted of a felony in a court of law, all of this money goes to the charities outlined earlier in the document. You don’t see a dime. Is that clear?”

I frowned at the will for a few long seconds. Surely this had to be some kind of scam. To jump straight from penniless foster child to independently wealthy. I might be well-advised to look this gift horse in the mouth, but the weirdness of these last few weeks was beginning to overwhelm me. Finally I cleared my throat to speak. “Yeah...yes, of course. I’m sorry, this is all a little jarring. Feels like I skipped the last few steps on a staircase, you know?”

“Oh, I  _ hate _ that feeling,” Murdock said dryly, to general chuckles.

I felt like I was going to vibrate through my chair and fall to the center of the earth. It was as if a boxer had me on the ropes and was just going to keep pummeling me with weird, jarring events until I hit the canvas. “So...are you guys my lawyers now?”

“Kind of,” allowed Murdock. “We’re on retainer to manage your trust fund, but representing you in a criminal case, for example, might represent a conflict of interest.”

“So good luck getting rid of us,” Foggy said with a little smile. “Did you have any questions?”

I had about a thousand questions, but none that these lawyers could answer. I shook my head. “It all seems pretty straightforward to me.”

Karen stood. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

“It was nice meeting you both,” I said, reaching to shake Murdock and Foggy’s hands in turn. Then I left the room just behind Karen.

“So,” Karen said as we walked down the stairs. “Now I suppose you understand why we went through so much trouble to find you.”

“Dancing to the tune of seventeen million dollars makes anybody find their tap shoes, I imagine,” I replied dryly.

Karen laughed again. I reached ahead to pull the door open for her. As she stepped through, she glanced over her shoulder at me. “I don’t know. I guess I expected you to be a little more excited. You just came into a lot of money, after all.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s kind of too much. Just trying to wrap my head around it all.” A grin grew across my face as we got into the car. “However, I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t give me a little more confidence.”

“Oh yeah?”

“For example, Karen, would you be interested in having dinner with me sometime?”

Karen blinked, hand poised over the keys to the ignition. She looked surprised, if not entirely repulsed. Just call me Don Juan Lothario Casanova. “Well...that’s sweet of you to ask, but I make it a rule not to date high school boys.”

“Even fabulously wealthy high school boys?”

Karen grinned as she pulled away from the curb. “ _ Especially _ fabulously wealthy high school boys.”

I nodded at that. “That...actually sounds like a really good policy to have.” I scratched the back of my head nervously. “But, y’know, I do graduate in about six weeks.”

Karen chuckled. “Then feel free to give me a call in seven weeks.”

 

* * *

 

Other than Maya’s constant humming of “If I Had A Million Dollars,” the next few weeks were uneventful. For a while I managed to ignore the predatory voice in my head and just pretend I was normal. But one day, three weeks before graduation, made sure that I could never so much as pretend to be anything other than the killer I was.

The day had actually gone rather well, which for me meant being left alone by the world around me. I actually felt like studying for my biology final that night, so I hefted my bag and set off to meet Maya at her locker. She was nowhere to be found. The darkness pulsed around the edges of my vision.

_ They’re making their move. _

I tracked down one of Maya’s volleyball teammates just down the hall. “Have you seen Maya anywhere?”

“Nope. But if you find her, tell her to hurry up before she misses practice.”

“Shit!” I paced the hallway in front of her locker, anxiously biting my knuckle. There had to be something wrong. She was always,  _ always _ at her locker at this time every day.

_ Vary your routine. Patterns are traps. _

I fumbled for my phone and hurriedly dialed Maya’s number. It rang and rang and rang until it finally went to voicemail.  _ “Hi, you’ve reached the top-secret Batphone of Maya Duvall. Leave a message and I’ll call you back same bat-time, same bat-channel!” _

“Maya, it’s Logan! Pick up the phone, goddammit!” I hung up and immediately dialed again. I still got voicemail. I kept dialing, over and over, as if it might make a difference. After god-knows-how-many attempts, I finally heard a click. “Maya, thank God!” I whispered hoarsely into the phone. “Please tell me where the shit you are?!”

No answer. There were sounds of shuffling, scratching. I heard somebody cough. There was a low, quiet hum under it all. I heard a horn.

_ They’re on the move. _

A very familiar voice could be dimly heard over the noises.  _ “Shit, she’s awake!” _ Bobby sounded panicked, in too deep.  _ “Fuckin’ chloroform always works in the movies!!” _

_ “What do we do??” _ said another, less familiar voice. I heard Maya moan around a gag, shuffling and struggling against restraints.

_ “Fuck, I dunno, keep her still! Chuck, take a left here! The spot’s under the overpass! Fucking step on it, asshole!” _

I dropped my phone. It hit the linoleum with a distant crunch. Bobby wasn’t just some prick who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was a sick fuck who’d kidnapped my sister. I reached down for my phone again. Had to call the police -

_ No time. Police on average four-minute response time, with a precise address. She’ll be dead by then. Have to move. _

I had to save my sister. More importantly, I had to  _ ruin _ the fuckwits that put her in danger. No time to run back to my apartment and grab the kit under my bed. I wanted to round up a posse, wrap a black bandana around my face, and ride them six feet into the dirt.

_ Think. THINK. Two overpasses in Hell’s Kitchen. Taking a left means he’s southbound. Run. Run fast. Steal a car if necessary. _

Without any further thought, I took off running.

As of right now, my instincts were in the driver’s seat. Logan was useless, huddled, sobbing in the corner of my brain. I don’t know how I found the endurance to sprint all the way across Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe it was part of my inheritance. Not important. The only important thing in my dim, hyperfocused vision was zeroing in on scum who desperately needed to stop breathing my air.

Their spot turned out to be an empty drainage ditch under the overpass. The faded NO TRESPASSING sign was askew, and the gate was unlocked. I could see four figures at the bottom, against the far wall.

They came into view as I climbed down the sloped concrete. Bobby and two of his basketball cronies. They loomed over Maya as she slumped against the wall, bound and gagged with endless amounts of duct tape. Their voices echoed down the ditch as I approached them.

“What the hell did you get us into, Bobby?!” yelled one.

“Would you shut the fuck up?!” snapped Bobby in reply. “I didn’t make you do nothing you didn’t want to do.”

I took a moment to catch my breath. I did my best to sound like a badass. “Let her go, Bobby. Or you’ll answer to me.” Hey, my voice only cracked a little bit.

_ So much for the element of surprise. _

Bobby turned on his heel to face me. He hefted a baseball bat onto his shoulder. “And who the hell are you?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You really don’t remember the guy who gave you the excuse to get that nose job you’ve always wanted?” I used the moment of conversation to get closer. I was surrounded. I wasn’t afraid.

Bobby scowled, but had no wisecrack to respond. Did he really not remember who I was? “The girl ain’t going nowhere until we’ve all had a turn.”

I should’ve been enraged. They had unspeakable plans for my sister, my closest friend. But all I felt was a bizarre calm. A harsh, cold sort of calm, like the inside of an empty refrigerator. I knew exactly what to do and how to do it. And I was going to enjoy it.

“If that’s the case…” I said quietly, then in an instant dropped low and shot a quick rabbit punch at Bobby’s crotch. He crumpled to the floor with a high-pitched whine.

_ At least you’re learning. On your right. _

One of Bobby’s brutish friends swung a haphazard haymaker at the side of my head. I redirected it away with my forearm, then stepped inside his guard. I jammed the heel of my hand right under his jaw. I heard the crunch, and felt the bone give way under my hand.

_ Behind you. _

The other one picked up Bobby’s baseball bat and took a swing at the back of my head. I ducked and whirled, grabbing the fat end of the bat and jabbing forward. The pommel of the bat struck him in the gut, sending him wheezing to his knees. I wrenched the bat out of his grip and cracked him across the face.

_ Last one. _

While I’d been distracted with his friends, Bobby struggled back to his feet. He pulled a switchblade from his jacket and brandished it at me. His eyes went wide and scared when I didn’t flinch. With a wild howl he ran at me, clumsily stabbing at my midsection with the knife.

I grabbed his wrist and stepped around behind him, wrenching his arm upward until he was forced to relax his grip, letting the knife slip from his fingers. In one smooth motion I caught the handle and stabbed Bobby in the back of the neck. He crumpled, gurgling, to the ground.

I pulled the knife from his throat, wiped off the blood on his jacket, and went over to Maya. She stared up at me for the first time, eyes wide and staring around the duct tape covering the lower half of her face. As my gaze met hers, I felt something for the first time since I’d sprung into action. The only person I unconditionally loved was scared. Scared of me.

I set about cutting her free of the duct tape. I gently removed the tape from her mouth. “Maya? Maya, talk to me...please…”

She struggled, but the tape still binding her kept her in place. I tried to cut her loose, but she kept wiggling away. “Get away from me!” she screamed, voice echoing down the ditch.

“Maya -”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Maya wrenched her legs free of the partially-cut duct tape and started running. 

I watched her go. I didn’t have the heart to go after her. Nothing I could say was going to calm her down. Now I had no one, and it was my fault.

I looked down at the knife in my hand, still slightly dripping with blood. I looked over at Bobby’s corpse, its cold, dead eyes staring up at me accusingly.

I fished the napkin out of my pocket and dialed the number. I walked away from the murder scene as the call connected.

“ _ Yeah?” _ _   
_

“Frank? I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

The opulent boardroom was shrouded in darkness. The blinds were drawn, and what few lights there were cast the board members’ faces in shadow.

A dozen men and women sat around a mahogany meeting table. “So we finally found the subject?” said one board member dryly. “I’m surprised it only took you eighteen years.”

“I can hardly be blamed for being sent on a wild goose chase,” snapped another. “We waste the better part of two decades combing through known associates only to find that he was given up to the foster care system!”

“The subject is an  _ it, _ not a  _ he, _ ” corrected a woman sitting on the opposite side. “But I will admit, it’s quite an ingenious way to hide the subject. Brought low by the hubris of our own assumptions.”

“Enough,” croaked a gruff voice from the head of the table. The burning end of a cigar glowed cherry-red in his mouth, shrouding his face in smoke. “What’s past is past. All that matters is the here and the now. What do we know about the subject?”

One of the board members shuffled some papers around in front of him. “The subject appears to be attending a local high school. Its caretaker is an absentee. It’s possible the subject has developed a false sense of security. Now is the time to strike before it slips through our fingers again.”

“I want to avoid using direct force if we can,” said the cigar-smoking man.

“Sir, I really must object,” said another board member. “With the template destroyed, this subject is our last chance to salvage the operation! Wasting any time poses unacceptable risks -”

“My word is final,” snapped the cigar-smoking man, cutting him off. “I want him observed. Untouched. Unmolested. I want to be sure that his programming is intact. If it is, he’ll come to us. This meeting is adjourned.”


	3. Issue #3: New World Man, Part 3

“When Filipino guerrillas fought the invading Japanese during the Second World War,” Frank began, his back to me as he laid out his kit of weapons on a board held up by two sawhorses, “they did so with only two weapons. A machete and a revolver. They only ever fired the revolver when they were tired or bored.”

He turned to face me with a machete in his hand, making my baton almost wilt in comparison. “Your dad was a master of this art.  _ Eskrima _ , or Filipino stick and knife fighting. By the time we’re done, you’ll either be just as good as him or you’ll be bleeding out on my floor.”

I extended the retractable baton with a flick of my wrist. This was our fifth exercise session in as many days. My muscles ached. I was sweating clear through my tank top. But I was ready for more. I needed to be. “Thanks for doing this, Frank.”

Frank chuckled and approached me with the machete. “Ain’t doin’ this for you, kid.” He pointed the tip of the knife at me, inches from my throat. “Now put up or shut up.”

What Frank and I were doing wasn’t really training, per se. All he did was put me in situations that allowed me to unlock and understand what I already knew intuitively. It included the assembly and use of a hundred different firearms, martial arts, mastery of knives and garrottes, even lockpicking and precision driving. Over the next few weeks, that empty warehouse was filled with the sounds of sticks, yelling, and gunfire. I didn’t feel ready to put on the suit and go to work, but I was damn close.

School, which had become less and less of a priority in the past few weeks, was now a distant background nuisance. Frank forced me to keep going and to pass my finals, though I failed to see the point. What I was doing wasn’t exactly flummoxed by the lack of a high school degree. Even the money my father left me seemed unimportant, immaterial. Nevertheless, thanks to Frank’s berating, I was doing well enough to graduate, and my application to Empire State University was accepted.

It didn’t help that Maya was avoiding me. Previously we were inseparable, now I didn’t see her for days at a time. I was pretty sure that it had less to do with squeamishness than it did with frustration. She was angry with me, or maybe herself, for expecting too much. For expecting a cold-blooded killer to be able to control himself.

 

* * *

 

My days were spent floating mindlessly through school, my nights spent intensively training under Frank. It reached the point that my instincts, the cold, cruel voice in my head, was virtually indistinguishable from my own thoughts. But they were apparently satisfied with where I was going, since I no longer had urges to kill random passersby.

Even so, those three factors meant that I wasn’t getting much sleep. On the Saturday before graduation, I was able to convince Frank to hold off training until one in the afternoon, which gave me a few hours for some much needed shut-eye.

I couldn’t decide if I was thrilled or very, very angry when I heard Maya knock softly at my bedroom door. I moaned incoherently and buried my head under my pillow.

Maya opened the door and flicked on the light. “Get up. Get dressed. We’re going out.”

I sat up and rubbed at my bleary eyes with the heels of my hands. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“A funeral,” Maya replied.

St. Matthew’s was packed to the rafters. I’d never seen so many people there, not even on Christmas and Easter. As we walked up the steps, I stopped to stare at the plate in front of the church:

IN LOVING MEMORY

ROBERT SANTINO RUGGIERO

 

I turned to Maya as she pulled open the door. “Maya, you have got to be kidding me. Do you really want to mourn the man who almost -”

But Maya only put a finger on her lips to shush me, then gestured for me to follow her inside. We found seats in a pew near the rear of the church.

After we sat in silence for a few minutes, I risked speaking again. “It’s...it’s really good to see you again, Maya. How have you been since the -”

Maya put a finger to her lips again. “Shush. It’s starting.” But her hand moved to my lap, where she found my hand and clasped it tightly. She threaded her fingers between mine and squeezed for all she was worth. She gave me a little reassuring smile as the priest began conducting the funeral mass.

When the gospel reading was done, the priest took off his reading glasses and set them on the pulpit. He came out from behind the podium and stood on the steps in front of the altar.

“I didn’t know Bobby Ruggiero very well,” began the priest. “He was not a churchgoing boy. But then again, neither was I, at his age.” A quiet chuckle rippled through the crowd. “So I’m not going to pretend that I did. I won’t waste your time with generic platitudes. Instead, I only ask that you take a look around you, and observe all the lives that Bobby touched in his brief time on Earth, and understand that you aren’t alone in this.”

To my surprise, I found myself doing so. It seemed like my entire graduating class was there, all exhibiting various stages of grief. I saw typically stoic jocks sobbing noisily into handkerchiefs. I overheard relatives recounting memories of holidays and events long past. It finally hit me just how many lives I affected in one moment, with one blade.

I felt Maya squeeze my hand again as the pews gradually emptied, forming a line to pay their respects to the casket at the front of the church. “I...I won’t presume to tell you what you did was wrong,” Maya whispered. Her eyes were downcast. She made no move to get up and join the line, so I didn’t either. “Bobby was scum...there’s no telling what he would’ve done to me if you hadn’t been there.

“So maybe you are a killer, Logan. Maybe you didn’t feel anything at all when you slit Bobby’s throat. But I still wanted you to see…”

I looked down at our joined hands as tears began to well up in my eyes. Was I crying for Bobby? Was I crying for Maya? Was I crying for all these people who’d never see someone they loved again? “I...I see it, Maya. I do. But...I can’t help but wonder if these people knew the real Bobby. The Bobby who almost…”

Maya shrugged. “Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. But that doesn’t make the Bobby they knew any less real than the Bobby that you and I knew. Just...you need to understand how many lives you affect when you...do what you do.”

I felt frozen, welded to the wooden pew by the sheer volume of emotions surrounding me. “It never ends, does it? The ripples.”

“We can’t stop you,” Maya said quietly, turning to look at me. Her eyes were red and tired, but her expression was determined. “And...maybe I don’t want to. You saved me, after all. You just need to be very, very careful. I can help.”

I nodded slowly, meeting her gaze with my own. “Where do we start?”

Maya pointed toward the front of the church, where a musclebound bear of a man stood next to the coffin, a stoic expression on his face. A trophy wife who couldn’t be much older than me pretended to sob into his shoulder. “With him.”

 

* * *

 

Maya paced in front of my bed like a SHIELD agent on the helicarrier’s bridge. “Turns out Bobby’s dad is Dominick ‘Lefty’ Ruggiero. Third-generation Italian mob, and one brutal son of a bitch. He’s been moving heaven and earth to find out who killed his son. Four cops are in the hospital already, brutally beaten by Ruggiero’s cronies.”

I sat cross-legged on my bed, the nickel-plated Colt disassembled in front of me. My hands automatically set about reassembling the weapon as I considered what Maya said. “Has he found out anything?”

Maya shook her head. “Somehow, despite the fact that you stabbed his son in the throat and beat two of his son’s friends into unconsciousness, nobody can seem to agree on what your face looks like.”

I smirked at her as my hands racked the slide and cleared the weapon. “So, what, are you going to be my sidekick?”

Maya snorted. “Trust me, I have zero desire to follow you around in brightly colored tights. Here’s what I’m thinking. Who’s Tony Stark without Pepper Potts? Fuckin’  _ nobody _ , that’s who.” She smiled and leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of my bed. “I can get you the info you need. Make sure you hit the right people at the right time.”

I arched an eyebrow at her. I slapped a magazine into the reassembled Colt and racked the slide. “How exactly are you going to do that?”

Maya grinned. “You remember that summer when it was like I had a new hobby every few weeks? I still remember all of them. Well, except macrame.”

I ruminated on that for a moment. “Well, if I know the mob - and don’t ask me how, but apparently I do - cutting off the head of the snake isn’t gonna cut it. Some other capo is just going to take Lefty’s place. It all needs to come down.”

“I cannot wait to write my ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ essay next year,” Maya replied with a chuckle.

The loop of piano wire concealed itself nicely inside my cuff. The nickel-plated Colt fit snugly in a shoulder rig beneath my jacket. I tested the baton once, twice, three times, flicking it open and retracting it. I tucked it into the custom pocket hidden in my jacket’s lining. I looked at myself in the mirror as I practiced the tie knot that Maya taught me. She was right.

I did look hot.

“Lefty Ruggiero, huh?” Frank mused as he looked over the file. His SUV was parked in an alley about a block away from the target. “So much for starting small.”

I shrugged. I began working the tight leather gloves over my hands as I sat in the passenger seat. “That’s how you get to Carnegie Hall, don’t you? Practice.”

Maya’s voice buzzed in my ear through a discreet Bluetooth headset.  _ “Oh my God, you’re bantering with the Punisher!” _

Frank, mercifully, didn’t notice my smile. His brow furrowed as he flipped through the extensive file on Ruggiero that Maya gathered. “Is this an FBI psych profile?”

_ “You’re welcome!” _

“Time’s a-wasting, Frank.” I got out of the car.

Frank followed suit. He stopped and jerked when he saw me come around the front of the car. “Fucking hell, even the suit is exactly the same. It’s even still got this!” He reached out and grabbed my tie, using it to yank me close until we were nose to nose. “An idiot handle!”

“Do you wanna kiss me as much as I wanna kiss you?” I asked, deadpan.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Frank huffed, shoving me away. 

I cackled gleefully as I made my way down the alley. 

Maya clickity-clacked madly on her keyboard over my headset.  _ “Witty repartee accomplished, let’s break this down. Are you prepared to enter the scummiest shithole of a bar you’ve ever seen? Falzone’s is a known wiseguy hangout. Mike Falzone has a reputation as a ‘guy who does jobs,’ but he’s mostly legit, near as I can tell. His clientele, not so much.” _

“Frank hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about why he wants to hit this place,” I mused. I passed a hole-in-the-wall Korean deli, long since shuttered for the night. “What are the chances for collateral damage? Innocent bystanders?”

_ “I don’t think you could walk in there and swing a prize racehorse’s severed head without hitting a made guy. In particular, you’re after Sammy Silke, one of Ruggiero’s many capos, and one of the few guys to survive Wilson Fisk’s downfall smelling like roses. Word on the street is that he keeps a ledger of all the guys in Ruggiero’s mob that owe him money. Most comprehensive list of targets we’re going to find.” _

I situated myself by the back door to Falzone’s. It looked, sounded and smelled like any shitty sports pub you cared to name. I dimly heard Metallica blaring from the jukebox. “Interesting.”

_ “What? You were expecting velvet booths and Frank Sinatra?” _

I grinned. “Not that. I guess I just didn’t expect to be so calm. I expected to be anxious, you know? Like the few moments before the teacher hands out the tests.”

_ “Well, just...keep in mind that you can still pull out. But once Frank gives the signal, there’s no going back. We’ll be stuck in...this thing of ours. Say goodbye to normal.” _

I frowned at that, a moment of confusion distracting me. “What did he say the signal was?”

The front windows of Falzone’s erupted, shattering under a hail of automatic gunfire. Figures. I hurriedly jimmied the back door open and slipped inside.

The bar was in chaos. Men in cheap suits and leather jackets, wielding pump action shotguns and snub-nosed revolvers, swarmed into the front of the bar, attempting desperately to fight off the whirlwind of death that Frank conjured. Several of them brushed past me down the narrow, wood-paneled hallway without even glancing in my direction. My theory was holding, thus far: I wasn’t significant enough to be noticed.

The yelling and cursing was almost louder than the gunfire. In moments, Frank had turned Falzone’s into a war zone. A nicely distracting war zone. It was tempting to wade into the melee, but I was here with a specific target. Frank was a hammer; I was a scalpel.

I crept up the cramped fire-trap stairs to the second floor. The gunfire downstairs was surprisingly quiet from up here. Quiet enough for me to hear a panicked voice wafting out from a half-open door:

“Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit…”

I nudged the door open a bit and peeked inside. It was an office, as dingy as every other room in the building. A slim man in his early thirties stood in front of an open wall safe, piling stacks of cash into a duffle bag. His yellow-tinted aviators slipped down his sweat-slick nose. Between Maya’s description and his self-evident panic, I could easily guess that this was Sammy Silke.

He was so concerned with getting out before the Punisher filled him with holes that there was no way he was going to notice me. Not with my abilities. This allowed me to easily stalk up behind him, tug a length of piano wire free from my cufflink, and loop it around his neck.

Silke lurched back against me, struggling and gagging as I partially collapsed his windpipe. He kicked and threw elbows, desperately trying to hit me. His hands tugged fruitlessly at the taut wire around his Adam’s apple.

He might’ve struggled free, but Frank taught me how to apply leverage to make a man of any size helpless under the garrote. “Relax,” I whispered hoarsely into his ear. “I haven’t applied nearly enough pressure to kill you yet.”

Silke had just enough air coming in to speak in a hushed, panicked tone. “Who- _ ack!- _ who do you work for, huh?”

I yanked back on the wire, making him hack up most of the contents of his stomach onto the duffel bag at his feet. “I’ll ask the questions.”

I could tell from a glance that the ledger was neither in the safe nor in Silke’s bug-out bag. Not even he was that stupid.

“Listen…” wheezed Silke. I let up on the pressure a bit, but not enough for him to scream for help. “IcanIcanIcan...whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it! Triple!”

“Stop wasting my time, Sammy,” I replied. I yanked back, hard. His airway now completely collapsed, Silke went weak at the knees, sinking to the floor and taking me with him. I straddled his back, yanking backward on the wire like the reins on a bucking bronco. Silke’s head reared back. Blood began to seep from the thin cut the wire made in his neck. 

“I need the ledger, Sammy.” I jerked his head around the room. “Just point me where it is. Go on, don’t be shy.”

Sammy didn’t respond, but I saw his eyes flick toward a filing cabinet in the opposite corner. But before I could thank him for his cooperation, the door to the office burst open. Three goombahs poured in, each more musclebound and thuggish than the last.

“Boss,” said the leader, “c’mon, we gotta bolt before Punisher finishes ventilating the boys downstairs. Car’s all ready-oh-ho-holyshit!”

Fuck a duck. Here I was, straddling their boss, swiftly strangling him to death with piano wire. I was damn significant enough to be noticed now. Maybe I needed to look into literal invisibility at some point. For now…

My gun practically flew out of its breakaway holster and into my hand. I extended my baton with a flick of my wrist. I jumped onto the desk and took aim at the frontrunning thug. I squeezed a few rounds in a tight circle in his chest as I advanced across the room toward the other two. 

They pulled revolvers from their jackets, but I was already inside their guard. I cracked the one on my left across the face with my baton, while burying the silenced muzzle of my gun in the other’s chest. I shoved both of them backward into the doorframe. I fired my gun twice into the goombah’s beer gut, then angled the barrel upward to put a final round under his chin. 

The last thug tried to grab my wrist and wrestle my baton away. He pulled it against him, which allowed me to jerk it upward, socking him in the throat and sending him reeling. I took advantage of his moment of weakness to put a shot in the back of his neck, neatly severing the brainstem.

I tucked my weapons away and went over to the filing cabinet. Sure enough, I found the ledger, a black three-ring binder bursting with disheveled papers, under a false bottom in the middle drawer. I tucked it under my arm and stepped over the bodies, ready to leave.

_ Behind you. _

I whirled, pulling my gun as I moved. I saw Sammy Silke sprawled against his desk, shakingly aiming a silver Beretta at me. He pulled the trigger. I sidestepped the shot and fired back.

Silke slumped backward, a neat circle seeping blood from the middle of his forehead.

I hurriedly trotted down the narrow stairs. The front of the bar was conspicuously silent. I made for the back door, ledger tucked under my arm. “Maya?” I touched a finger to the headset in my ear. “You there? I got the ledger.”

My heart clenched when I could faintly hear sobbing. Then a few long, sucking breaths. Finally, Maya spoke.  _ “Oh god...the sounds! The...the gurgling, wretching...the splattering...I could almost smell it!” _

I frowned, then looked down at myself. My suit was relatively untouched by the violence, save for a grayish stain in the back of my right cuff. “Maya, I…”

_ Brain matter. Shit’ll never come out. _

_ “Just...just get back home safe, okay?” _ whispered Maya in my ear.  _ “You...you got the ledger. Information. That’s something I can handle. Gotta lower the sensitivity of this micro-” _ She cut off abruptly as the call ended.

I couldn’t afford to pause any longer. I heard sirens in the distance as I ran down the alley back toward Frank’s car.

  
  


Detective Brett Mahoney had had a rough night. The gas station burrito he’d been forced to scarf down during the Falzone’s stakeout wasn’t agreeing with him. His doctor said his prostate was out of control, but there was no way the precinct’s medical insurance was going to cover it. His ulcers had ulcers.

It didn’t help his intestinal distress one bit when he was called to the Falzone’s crime scene. On his  _ one and only fucking night off this week, _ no less.

“This had better be apocalyptic,” he growled at the uniformed officer standing outside the police tape.

“Damn near, sir,” replied the uniform. “Forensics just cleared out. It’s the Punisher, sir. We think he’s back in town.”

The front room of Falzone’s was utterly destroyed. The windows had been reduced to a fine powder, dusting the bar like new-fallen snow. Forensics tagged twenty fatalities, and enough spent ammunition to cause a major brass shortage.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Mahoney said, nudging one of the bullet-riddled corpses with his foot. The pool of semi-congealed blood beneath made an ugly squelch. “We got IDs on any of these poor saps?”

“Forensics is running their prints and dental. Already got a few red flags from RICO,” replied the uniformed officer.

“Well, yeah. Anybody with half a brain could tell you that Falzone’s is mobbed out the wazoo.” Mahoney wrinkled his nose and turned his back to the scene. Damned indigestion. “Is there anything else?”

“Upstairs, sir. They found a few more bodies, but…”

Mahoney quirked an eyebrow. “But?”

The uni just shook his head. “Take a look for yourself.”

Mahoney followed the uniform upstairs. An open office door showed a similar scene to the one downstairs, but an altogether different kind of gruesome.

Four bodies. One by the desk and three almost piled by the door. Only a few spent casings, and certainly no evidence of assault weapons.

“This...wasn’t the Punisher,” Mahoney said quietly.

“I was thinking the same thing, Detective,” came a familiar voice from the window.

A shadowy figure sprang lithely through the small office window. His red costume was mostly shrouded by darkness, but the intertwining two Ds on his chest seemed to glow in the dark.

“Figures. Only a matter of time before you come sniffing around these scenes, ain’t it?” Mahoney huffed without rancor. He walked over to the body by the desk. A single neat bullet wound scabbed over right between his eyes. A thin line of dried blood stretched across his neck. “Looks like a professional execution.”

“In the middle of one of the Punisher’s massacres?” asked Daredevil. “That’s a little hard to believe, Detective.”

Mahoney shrugged. “How else would you describe this? The shot placement, the subtlety? Maybe he found a partner. Somebody as loony as he is, but not so loud.”

“I’ll make sure that the Punisher and his new friend understand that Hell’s Kitchen is under my protection.” Daredevil turned back to the window. “Have a good evening, Detective.” With that, he was gone.

“Yeah. You too,” said Mahoney, to no one in particular.


End file.
